


Rattlesnake

by BoilingHeart



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blackwatch, Coping mechanism, Flashback, Gabriel Reyes (mentioned briefly), Other, Self Loathing, Takes place very shortly after Recall, basically jesse is trying to deal with the pain of grief and his haunted memories, deadlock - Freeform, happyish ending, some symbolism, young mccree flashback
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoilingHeart/pseuds/BoilingHeart
Summary: The torment of the gunslinger's sins and his past seize him in the dead of night, threatening to send him over the edge. Jesse makes an effort to regain control and heal.





	Rattlesnake

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for my McCree RP blog [mxcreed](http://mxcreed.tumblr.com/) but it got a little longer than anticipated, and I'm a little proud of it so I figure I'd post it here too.  
> Also mainly wrote this to cope with some stuff I'm dealing with, so here's how Jesse handles himself.  
> I'm still working on [Locked and Loaded](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7603000/chapters/17303569), taking forever to update that one mb, but I do wanna say that this one-shot here does link up with LaL as a sort of prequel-ish thing. They both can stand solidly on their own though.
> 
> Fair warning: There's some light implication of suicidal idealization at some point but it's not much.

It begins in his sternum, an invisible pain cutting deeper than a scalpel. A tightness that seizes him -- the pain blossoms to the expanse on his chest, contracting tighter, tighter, until he could feel his heart desperately beat within his chest. Then his stomach, a twisted, wretched feeling that snakes around him and wraps tighter than a rattlesnake. It crawls further up his skin. He can’t breathe, his head hurts, and his shabby motel bleeds red, a crimson veil forever left over Jesse’s eyes since the day he mourned the loss of his own life.

A pain, a disease, a feeling invisible to the naked eye that inflicted hell and havoc within the gunslinger, rocking him like a ship off-course in a black sea, and by God, he cannot see, and he cannot swim, and the air, filled with a tension so thick it drowned him just by breathing it in.

He doubles over, clutching his abdomen and curling in on himself, trembling and sweating furiously.  _ Breathe, breathe. _ He had an assassination to complete in the morning, had to move out of state and find a new spot before his current one expires, and yet the temptation to reach for the bourbon beside him to forget his sins shouted over the torment in his skull.

_ Breathe. _

Slowly, he uncurled, sitting up and leaning against the side of a moldy mattress. The floor was a mess of clothes and trash from takeout, his boots cast aside, and just beside him, the glinting, comfortable silver Peacekeeper, resting in her place like the angel of death. Comforting in the way the light shone down upon the metal, shining like he envisioned a halo would. Within, the bullets it carried, reminding him of who he is, what his job is, always has been and always will be, and a cold reminder that it could even be the ticket out of his torment by one means or another. A cold mercy, the absolute opposite Angela was. Is. Whoever she is nowadays.

He drops his flesh hand beside him, palm facing up and slowly stretching his fingers. His left arm hung idly, his prosthetic detached for the time being, but he pretended he could stretch his left fingers anyways. He struggled to find semblance of structure again, but he made progress. His breathing began to slow and fall into a deep rhythm, and he allowed himself to rest his head back and close his eyes. Not quite relief, not quite as despairing, but an almost comfortable middle, like the in-between of chest-heaving sobs. His throat was still tight and his gut still twisted, but he could manage. He has to. There is no Overwatch to protect him, no Blackwatch, no Deadlock. Nothing. No one. Only him and Peacekeeper. He has to breathe. Has to --

On the nightstand, his old encrypted phone suddenly blared, a shrill, high-pitched beep that sung louder than an alarm clock and drilled into the gunslinger’s cranium. He gasped, his eyes snapping wide open, wild, alert, and Peacekeeper gripped tightly in his hand. The rhythm of the phone echoes like a banshee, pumping his blood with fire, and sending him straight back to the harsh desert of Santa Fe. His left hand was there again, the Deadlock tattoo in fresh black ink that glared at him, reminding him of who he was, and who owned him. The motel before the gunslinger was replaced with the wide, red horizon of the desert, and the phone’s ring faded into that of the alarms on Deadlock’s base. Motorcycle engines revved, booming in the gunslinger’s chest. The rattlesnake’s tail. There were shouts of English and Spanish echoing in the base. Their greatest challenge yet. A fight grander than that of rivalling gangs or the occasional swarm of bandits they’d fought before.

No, this swarm wasn’t native to Santa Fe. The streaks of black and crimson that painted the dry rocks of Route 66, spilling like a plague on the most advanced equipment that had the gangsters either fearing or drooling over screamed danger. It was almost hard to know just what the attack was. Government, no doubt. The symbols of a pale skull and a sword driven into it boiled young Jesse’s blood, and he revved his own engine, driving directly into the fray.

Fresh meat.

Blackwatch’s tactics were cleaner and more efficiently organized, but Deadlock held strong against their forces. Pruned and trained forces versus a reckless collection of bandits and gunslingers. Money in combat versus hell on wheels. It was all Jesse had craved.

Into the fray -- it was a dustbowl, reddish-brown dust lifting into the air by the wheeled-bikers, and the gunfire like lightning and thunder within the dirt clouds. Some of the gangsters lay dead already, others tasered and cuffed. Quick and efficient work, like they were lined up on a factory trail. 

Jesse twirled his gun, driving in circles around the covert agents and unleashing hell, striking in vital places and aiming to damage their fancy equipment. A bullet for a comm device, an engine, a computer, tech mounted to an agent’s gear, whatever that would weaken them. He dodged gunfire, feeling some graze past his skin and tear through his leather. Deadly maneuvers with his bike kept him just out of reach, strafing just by the ridge of the canyon, hopping curves, and driving up the walls as much as his momentum would catch. Just a distraction loud enough for his allies to get by.

But they didn’t. They kept falling, one by one, the Deadlock mercenaries succumbed to Blackwatch’s superiority. As much as Jesse didn’t want to admit it, this was a battle they lost long before it started. He drove up the rocky walls once more, this time, allowing gravity to take its course. He angled his body to lift the bike away from the wall, feeling the weightlessness for a fleeting moment and drawing his guns to fire at the agents below him. He and the bike began to fall, and he guided the bike until it crashed into the agents on hoverbikes, knocking them off their vehicles with gruesome damage. Not enough to kill, but enough to drive Jesse’s pulse through the roof. He fell awkwardly atop a different hoverbike, striking the agent with the butt of his guns and leaping off to the newly emptied vehicle. 

He adapted quickly to its controls and handlebars, and sped across the desert like a speeding bullet, no longer looking for his comrades, no longer searching for his base, or the cargo they were after. He needed only to outrun them, hideout and survive. Even if Blackwatch didn’t kill him, incarceration would surely put him on death’s row. He was far too young to die.

Behind him he could hear the sleek engines chase him, akin to the hiss of a snake, its warm breath dangerously close to his ear. His years spent on wheels made it easier to maneuver a hoverbike, its movements so sensitive and controlled, and he forced himself to fit between buildings and rocks, dropping the trail of the agents that tailed him.

All except one.

A hooded figure atop a heavily armored bike reared close to Jesse, the heavy metal almost touching. He kept up with his speed for the most part, and he dodged the young gunslinger’s stun grenades. Like the Grim Reaper was stalking him, and the glaring symbol of the white mask on the bike he rode only sealed Jesse’s fate to perdition.

From the rearview mirror, Jesse could see the agent raise a massive shotgun, and his heart pounded. He strafed right, hoping to lose him in a sharp U-turn, but the agent fired, bullet pellets striking his left knee. He lost control, felt the world spin around him, not knowing where exactly he was facing when he crashed into the rocky terrain, only knowing that the snake had reached him, fangs shaped as shotguns were bared, and somewhere behind him, their bikes clattered, and the high noon sun bore down on him with an intensity brighter than the flames of Hell. He scraped backwards, his life ending and beginning simultaneously in that moment. The very face he feared became one he loved, the one that snared him later fed him and housed him. And by God he feared it, feared it so bad.

Jesse collapsed, the desert disappearing, the crimson veil dropping back over his eyes, and he lay on the floor back in his motel. Older, bigger, missing a limb, riddled with scars, and absolutely broken. He felt the rattlesnake at his throat, and he could not breathe. Everything ended and began on that day. Every single moment that happened after that day shaped and changed him, set him on a course of redemption. Reminded him that he could still be loved, and that he could still love. Gabriel Reyes, Ana Amari, Jack Morrison, Angela Ziegler, hell, there were so many in Overwatch that held together tight. Blood of the covenant thicker than the water of the womb. For the first time in his whole life he felt complete, felt a part of a family, of a pack that truly,  _ truly _ meant to hold together strong by compassionate bonds rather than reckless adrenaline. He belonged somewhere, and they meant something.

The sound that escaped the gunslinger was strangled, and that dreadful, invisible pain seized him a hundred times over. The phone blared again, pinning the broken man to the ground, instilling a paranoia that it had happened again. His real family had fallen apart, and Deadlock adopted him. They collapsed, and Overwatch adopted him. Now they’ve collapsed, by God what other hellspawn wanted him now, what did they want? Why him? Just to rip him apart and sew him back together in different ways? He was ending again, the phone knows it. He was ending, it was ending, and the light of Peacekeeper’s barrel reflected onto Jesse’s hair like a halo.

The world weighed down on him. He has work to do, so much to do still. So much evil in the world, so much injustice that threatened to tear apart families like it had done to Jesse’s. He has to breathe. He has to right his wrongs. No one else can do it for him, and no one else could do his job. He has to breathe.

_ Breathe _ .

He trembled furiously, taking his time until he could regain control of himself again. The floor’s a mess, as is he, but he lays there, ignoring the smell of the carpet and dilapidated walls, ignoring the crimson veil that begged him to kill. Slowly, the tension eased, the snake still there, still lingering, but he can breathe again. Every action he made was small, and every thought about how useless he was rendered was forced back into white noise. This is progress. He needs to breathe.

He stretches his hand again, lifting himself so he sat up once more. He raises his left stub, turning it slowly to see the heavy scars and augmentations embedded into his skin. Hair trailed up his arm, and he looked down at himself. His bare chest is hairy, riddled with scars, but he reminds himself he is whole. He studies his right arm, flexing his fingers and pretending for a moment he didn’t hate the knuckle tattoos that spelled “DEAD” on his hand. He’s real. He’s mostly whole. He’s alive.

He pretends it’s a victory.

Jesse brings himself to stand, taking his time, feeling his legs crack at the movement. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall, and he pretends he doesn’t hate what he sees. Unkempt hair and beard, dark circles under his eyes, more wrinkles than he’d like to count, and a horrible mistake of a tattoo on his neck - a dashed line with the words “CUT HERE” inked into his skin. He doesn’t bother pretending he’s okay with that one. He stares at himself anyways, stretches, and forces a grin on his face. It’s not genuine, it hardly reaches his eyes, but he grins, flashing bright teeth, and pretending everything is fine. He watches himself grin, poking his cheeks, and pretending he’s had the time of his life.

It feels a little better.

He breathes deep, turning now, taking his prosthetic and carefully latching the black market material to his stub. It feels nice, and the fingers creak a little when he stretches them before they become accustom to the movement once more. 

Progress, bit by bit. He washed his face, brushed his hair, trimmed his beard, and threw a shirt on. Complete, like a normal and whole person. He forces another grin. It doesn’t feel as bad.

At last, he settles into his bed, snatching the horrendously loud phone off his nightstand. The bright display on his phone told him it was two thirty-four in the morning, but he didn’t let it bother him. It was high noon somewhere in the world. In Germany, probably. He opened the missed message, a bright, familiar blue and white illuminated his face, and he froze, smitten at the message.

It begins in his sternum, a blossoming feeling that filled his chest with hearth he had almost forgotten existed. A warmth that seizes him -- nostalgia and hope blooming, like a small child witnessing a miracle before his very eyes. The Overwatch symbol greeted him, a beacon of peace and hope calling out to him, a message sent directly from Watchpoint: Gibraltar’s coordinates. The shock of reality slowly sets in, enveloping him, and he allows himself to feel hopeful. Too good to be true, he wants to say, but to hell with that. He wanted to believe again. The crimson veil lifted from his eyes, and he felt that perhaps, this was his end, most certainly, but also his gateway to a new beginning, to start over once again.

_ Recall. _

He did not have to pretend to smile.


End file.
